


walking the line

by shatterthelight



Category: Jane the Virgin (TV)
Genre: Drunkenness, F/F, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 11:59:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4745537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shatterthelight/pseuds/shatterthelight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Luisa's life has been a series of hoops and hurdles and hard situations. She is where she is now because she's learned how to leap, juggle, and walk through fire. There are many things she's capable of handling.</p><p>She's not sure this is one of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	walking the line

**Author's Note:**

> If I'm going to hell, then this fandom is coming with me.

She should know by now not to let herself _want._

Her father is enchanted with Rose. It takes him only a few days after that awkward dinner before he manages to introduce her to all of his friends (i.e. business associates; for him, the two categories are interchangeable). The wedding is the most excessive, frivolous ceremony Luisa has ever had the displeasure of attending, and the diamond that lives on Rose’s finger now is the size of a cherry pit. Luisa has trouble swallowing every time she’s forced to look at it.

The honeymoon is long, expensive, and, apparently, ineffective, because less than two weeks pass before Rose is knocking at Luisa’s door.

Literally.

“What are you doing here?” is the first thing Luisa asks, because it’s past ten p.m. on a Friday night and Rose hadn’t so much as texted her before showing up, and yet here she is, standing in Luisa’s doorway, clad in a white dress, high heels in her hands. Her make-up has mostly rubbed off, flecks of dark mascara standing out against her fair skin, and her hair is disheveled. It’s the first time Luisa has seen her look anything less than perfect – and the first time since they met that she’s seemed like a real human being.

“Hello yourself,” Rose responds in a clipped tone. “Can I come in?”

“And again I ask: what are you doing here?” She’s irritated at Rose’s entitlement, although when Rose scoffs and makes her way into Luisa’s house without waiting for an invitation, she doesn’t protest.

Rose makes it about halfway to the coffee table before she starts to stumble, which is Luisa’s cue to slam the front door and follow.

“Hey. You okay?” She puts a steadying hand on the taller woman’s shoulder, is surprised when she doesn’t tense; Rose closes her eyes, an expression on her face that suggests she’s riding a wave of dizziness.

“Fine,” Rose says. “F _iiiiiii_ ne.” She draws out the vowel until her voice cracks and then smiles the unhappiest smile Luisa’s ever seen outside of her own mirror.

Her breath smells like alcohol.

“Oh my god.” Luisa pulls her hand away and crosses her arms. “You’re _drunk_.” Of course. Of course Rose would never voluntarily be in her presence _sober_.

“Don’t sound so scandalized.” Dropping her heels in the middle of the floor, Rose, in what appears to be a deeply concentrated effort, finds Luisa’s couch and sinks into it. “I’m an adult.”

“Okay. Okay, let me try and get in your head.” Luisa, on instinct, starts to move in the same direction as Rose, before remembering she hates Rose, leaving her to awkwardly linger at the edge of the living room. “You, a recently married woman – to a very rich man, I might add, so I’m not sure what sorrows you think you’re drowning in – go out and get drunk, and instead of going home to said rich husband, you go to the house of his daughter. Who, y'know. Has been to rehab. For alcoholism.”

She can hear the gears in Rose’s head whirring to process this statement before Rose says in a voice that, even slurred, is too refined for the word, “Shit.”

“I’m guessing that slipped your mind.”

“Maybe.” Rose fiddles with her wedding ring, casting her eyes away but keeping her chin up. “You told me once, though, that you have self-control. And that you hate it when people treat you like you don’t.”

She’s not wrong, and Luisa’s caught off guard that she remembers. Or cares. “I do,” she says, “have self-control. For the record. But I really don’t get why you came _here_.” She’d been annoyed when her father gave Rose her address to begin with (“She should know where her stepdaughter _lives_ , Luisa,” he’d said; she’d gagged) and that irritation bubbles back up now.

“It made sense on the way over here.” Rose blinks slowly. “I was thinking something about… something. I don’t remember.”

 _It is unethical for a doctor to throw a drunk person out on the streets._ Beyond it be in Luisa’s nature for her to show no sympathy to someone who’s had a rough night, but of all the people in the world, this is the last one she wants to deal with. “You shouldn’t be here.” _It is unethical for a doctor to-_ “Wait a minute. Did you drive?”

Rose purses her lips. Nods.

“Oh my god, Rose, what the _hell_ were you thinking?!”

Rose rolls her eyes and ugh, Luisa cannot believe she has the _audacity_ , but in true Solano nature (Rose fits right in the family, _how’s about that_ ), it manages to get worse. “Don’t be so condescending. Like I’m sure you haven’t done worse before.”

It’s a low blow and Luisa feels it, right around her ribcage, feels the punch and the gasp of air and the persisting sting that works its way up to her chest, and she doesn’t care if it’s unethical for a doctor to shove a drunk person through a five-story window. “Cool. Awesome. Great seeing you. You can go now."

Instead of protesting about Luisa’s quick temper, Rose looks guilty.

In an instant, she looks so, so guilty.

"Wait, wait.” Before Luisa can so much as walk four steps towards the door that she is very much planning to throw Rose out of, Rose half-runs half-staggers to her, snatches her hand, and clutches it like a lifeline. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that, I’m sorry I said that, please don’t kick me out.” Her voice drips with regret and desperation and something else, something deeper that Luisa can’t identify beyond _sad_. “I know what a sensitive subject that is. I’m sorry.”

She tries not to look at Rose’s face, tries so damn hard, and, well, she fails miserably, and one look at those watery blue eyes is all it takes for Luisa to heave a deep sigh and give in.

“I’m sorry,” Rose repeats, clinging to Luisa’s arm now, her words slurring together, “ _I'msorry_ -”

Luisa shakes her off – she’s willing to be a nice person despite her brain screaming at her to cut this off now, but she’s not about to become a climbing post – and she knows she’s going to admit defeat before she even opens her mouth. "Okay, okay, jeez. You’re a really depressing drunk.” Rose smiles briefly in spite of looking like she’s about to tip over, and Luisa leads her back to the sofa. "C'mon, hotshot.”

Rose crashes back onto the couch, much less gracefully than before, and lets her head loll onto the cushions. Her eyes close and the ensuing stretch of silence leads Luisa to wonder if she’s already fallen asleep before she says, without moving, “What kind of drunk are you?”

“A recovering one.”

“I’m asking a serious question.”

“And I gave you a serious answer.”

Rose opens one eyelid and focuses a blurry stare on Luisa, a lazy grin ghosting her face. “I’m not going to make you do anything. Just humor me.”

She’s not sure if Rose is deliberately using a fireplace poker to prod at a bear, or if she’s trying to use it to play some patronizing game of fetch with a dog. It probably depends on if Luisa decides to be the bear or the dog, but neither option is appealing.

The feral cat sprawled on the couch is still staring at her, so she goes the honest route. “A dangerous one.”

“That’s still not a straightforward answer.”

“It’s the truest answer I can give you.”

The space between Rose and the end of the couch is empty, lonely, and Luisa can’t help it. She inches closer, beckoned by the urge to fill in the gap.

“I mean, I could stand here and say I’m a party girl drunk.” For some reason she feels the need to explain herself, to say _why_. “The girl who dances on tabletops and kisses strangers and sings along to songs I don’t know the words to.” The nearer she gets, the more she can smell Rose. Vodka, perfume, Rose, Rose. “But that’s only true after the first drink or three. It never stopped there.”

Luisa stops now, though, stops talking, stops moving. She just… freezes.

In the time that she’s been talking, Rose has sat up straighter and hung onto every word she’s said. When she stops, Rose wordlessly shuffles sideways to widen the open space.

It’s something about this, the attention and the consideration, that makes Luisa hate Rose less enough to finally sit down beside her. When she settles down, she feels altogether out of place and yet like she’s exactly where she’s supposed to be.

She takes a deep breath (inhales Rose’s scent without thinking, shudders, breathes out breathes out breathes out), and she says, “I’m the kind of drunk who breaks everything that matters and wakes up with nothing but hazy memories I can’t make sense of and a pile of problems I can’t fix. That’s what kind of drunk I am.”

Rose drops her head on Luisa’s shoulder and says nothing for a long, long while.

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

“It’s okay. Really. I’ve got a handle on it. I can hold it together better than people give me credit for.” The air in the room is so heavy now that Luisa’s afraid she’ll suffocate if she doesn’t do something to rectify it. Tone lighter, she says, “I played truth or dare a lot, too. Especially in college. You wouldn’t think it, but pre-med kids really know how to have a party.” _When they aren’t crumbling under pressure._ She doesn’t mention that part.

That garners a laugh from the girl leaning against her, and Luisa treasures the sound for a fleeting moment before she catches herself. It doesn’t belong to her.

“What are you doing here, Rose?" _In my house. On my shoulder. In my life._ "Does my father even know you’re here?”

“Your father’s on a business trip,” Rose mumbles without moving from where she’s nestled herself. Her voice lowers. “I guess I didn’t want to be alone.”

“Is that your way of saying 'I want someone to take care of my hangover in the morning’? Because if you’re looking for sympathy,” god, she’s so _warm_ , and why this, why tonight, why ever, “this is… not the place you’ll find it.”

“I don’t need a babysitter. Just a someone.”

“What kind of someone?”

“Just someone.” Suddenly Rose pops up again and looks Luisa right in the eyes. “Screw you, by the way, for implying earlier that I don’t have 'sorrows' or whatever. Everyone has sorrows.”

“I know.” Does she ever. “Trust me, I know. Sorry. That was thoughtless of me to say.”

In this moment, Luisa is struck by how little she really knows about Rose. It’s not the first time she’s ever had the thought – far from it – but it’s the first time she’s had it while Rose has seemed vulnerable. Because this is the first time Rose has ever seemed vulnerable. And maybe she doesn’t hate Rose after all, even if she should.

It would be so much easier to hate her if Luisa could pretend she wasn’t human. But alas.

“Do your sorrows have anything to do with why you had the bright idea to go out and get wasted?”

“I’m not _wasted_.”

“Sorry. Trashed. Hammered.”

“Those are worse. I’m not even that drunk.”

Not drunk enough to be sprawled out on the floor, maybe. Not drunk enough to be a sobbing wreck or let out a stream of overly honest confessions. But she’s on enough of a buzz to be here, to be real, and Luisa’s not sure that isn’t Rose’s version of hammered. “Would you like to make a submission to the suggestion box?”

“Try… inebriated. That sounds better.”

Luisa titters. No one uses the word inebriated when they’re sober, and here’s Miss Thing throwing it around like it’s basic terminology. “So, I ask once again, why did you decide to go out and get _inebriated?_ ”

“Why do people do anything, honestly.” Rose stretches her arms high above her head and then drops her hands straight into her laps, where she curls and flexes her fingers. “What, do you have a rationale behind every impulsive thing you do?”

“That goes against the definition of impulsive. And stop saying fancy words like 'rationale.’ Your vocab should be impaired right now.”

She waits for a snappy comeback, and when she doesn’t get one, she looks at Rose and sees tears forming in her eyes and oh shit oh shit.

“Woah, I’m sorry. You don’t have to tell me anything.” Tears that aren’t her own are not an area of expertise.

Rose wipes the tears away with the back of her hand before they can fall, and none come to replace them. “I should go.”

Oh, for god’s sake. “Like _hell_ you think I’m gonna let you drive home.” It’d probably be better if she _doesn’t_ spend the night here – scratch that, sleepover at Luisa’s sounds like an objectively horrible idea – but it’s too late for that now. “You’re here. You’re committed now. Welcome,” she dramatically gestures outward, “to the Hotel d'Alver. I hope you enjoy your stay, because this can literally never happen again.”

With a little toss of her hair, Rose curls her legs underneath her and heaves an exhausted sigh. “Sometimes I wonder if humans are hard-wired to regret all of their decisions.”

Oh. Okay. So sharing circle _is_ happening right now. “Maybe humans just make a lot of decisions worth regretting. I mean,” she glances uncomfortably at Rose, “that sounds really cynical. I don’t like how that sounded. No, I take it back. I never said it.”

Now she’s double uncomfortable and flailing a little, and Rose gives her a look that says _go on_ , which only serves to make her flail more.

“I think people change. I mean, obviously they do, but not just the big, dramatic changes. I think the person you are now is different even just from the person you are a week ago.” She’s pulling this out of thin air, but deep down, she means it. She’s tried so hard to be that girl again, the one who believes in basic human goodness. She has to mean it. “And that’s not a bad thing. But it means things we do yesterday can suddenly become things we’d never do today.”

Yikes, that sounded ridiculous. She fully expects Rose to make fun of her for it, even braces herself for the incoming snark, but instead-

“What does it mean,” Rose sounds engaged, if tired, “then, if we do the same thing tomorrow?”

By now, Rose has laid her head back down on Luisa’s shoulder, and Luisa’s hand, without getting consent from her brain, laces its fingers into the waterfall of red hair tickling her arm. And she doesn’t hate this, and she doesn’t hate Rose. And this is what makes it obvious to her that she’s been looking for the answer to Rose’s exact question, and she still has no idea what it is.

“Well,” Luisa says half-heartedly, “I can’t have all the answers.”

“…”

“…”

“So. Truth or dare, huh?”

“A crowd favorite.”

“Okay. Truth or dare.”

“What?”

“Don’t you know the rules? Pick one.”

She’s kidding. She has to be kidding. “I don’t think it’s fair if only one of us is drunk. Which is not me volunteering to even out the playing field.”

“I wouldn’t have asked you to. And I’ll have plenty of time tomorrow to wish I’d never done any of this,” Rose says, and she is decidedly not kidding. “It wouldn’t hurt to have something to laugh about.”

She really hadn’t been planning on making a slumber party out of this nonsense (and it is nonsense, she reminds herself, it’s complete nonsense that she’s letting any of this happen) but Rose has a point, and Luisa is all for getting away from the previous topic. She says, “Okay then. Truth,” and wishes in an instant that she’d chosen the other option, but she does, in fact, know the rules, and even as an adult feels obligated to follow them.

“Mmm… cats.”

“Cats? What about them?”

“Your general opinion.”

She harbors no ill will towards cats and says as much, but also, “Wow, what a tame question. I’m disappointed.”

“I couldn’t think of anything.”

“This was your idea.”

“That doesn’t mean I have any practice. Law students don’t know how to have a party.”

“It’s not that hard. Truth or dare?”

“Truth.”

“Tell me one really weird fact about yourself. Something that not a lot of people know.”

Rose sits up and frowns at her. “What?”

“Anything. Say the first thing that comes to mind. As long as it’s true, obviously.”

Rose has to furiously rack her brain for several minutes before she comes up with something that makes her eyes widen for a beat. “Okay, you know that really, really dumb thing people can do where they put a cherry stem in their mouth and tie it in a knot with their tongue?”

She doesn’t continue and Luisa has to replay the sentence in her head before the meaning of it registers. “Seriously?”

“Seriously.”

“Oh my god. Oh my _god_. I didn’t think people could actually- oh my god.” A giant grin breaks out on her face and next thing she knows, she’s making a mad dash for the kitchen.

“Where are you going?” Rose calls after her with a great deal of caution in her voice.

“I have cherries in my fridge and you’re doing this, you’re doing this for me right now.”

“Hold on-”

“ _Right now._ ” She returns with a cherry and she doesn’t know why she’s so giddy about this, but she is; she’s so ecstatic she can hardly contain it. She rips the stem off, shoves it into Rose’s hand before she can object, and puppy dog eyes her until she sticks it in her mouth.

She works at it for a minute, spits it out, and holds the knot up victoriously.

“Ho-ly shit that’s _awesome_.”

“I’m glad you think so.” Amused, Rose discards the stem on the coffee table, takes the rest of cherry from Luisa, and eats around the pit. “I almost wasn’t sure I could do it _inebriated_. _”_

“Talented tongue. I wonder what else it can do.”

That most certainly was _not_ supposed to have come out the way it did, and Luisa covers her mouth and blushes furiously and is about to go slam her head into a wall before Rose bursts into laughter and says, “I think you have an idea.”

Which makes things about a million times worse.

Rose places the cherry pit next to the stem, and Luisa is reminded of the ring. Which makes her look at the actual ring. Which makes her heart sink into her stomach.

“I think I’m done playing,” Luisa whispers, because what the hell is she doing except for deluding herself?

She’s been telling herself, over and over again, that Rose is only here because she’s drunk. That Rose is only here at all because her mind is experiencing an alcohol-induced error of judgment. And this is also the reason Rose has been exposed for the first time since that night they spent by the pool, before the complications and the heartache and the walls of resentment Luisa had started to build up since then, the same ones that are threatening to come down now. And Luisa had only opened her door (and her mouth, and fine, her heart, just a little bit, just enough to be past the point of deniability) to begin with because there’s a chance Rose won’t remember any of this come morning.

And alcohol is the reason they’re sitting close enough for their legs to be touching, close enough that Luisa can count each breath Rose takes when they lapse into silence once more. And it’s the reason Rose’s head falls back onto her shoulder, and the reason Luisa doesn’t shove her off. And it’s the reason, too, why Rose starts tracing circles on Luisa’s exposed thigh. This is all just booze and broken pieces of what they could have had.

But the liquor excuse can only stretch so far before it starts wearing thin, especially because Luisa, heart hammering away, is stone cold stupid sober.

And just because Rose might forget it all doesn’t mean that Luisa won’t remember every second.

“What are we?” she asks, before she can wonder why it matters.

“Stepmother and stepdaughter.”

She cringes. “Gross.”

“Exes?”

“Hardly.” They’d never had the chance to be not-exes.

“Idiots, then.”

That sounds about right. “It’s late. You should sleep. Not on the couch.” Rose stiffens ever so slightly, like _do you mean what I think you mean_ , leading Luisa to quickly elaborate. “I have a guest room.”

Rose stops resting against her (Luisa immediately feels the loss of her weight and hates herself for missing it) and faces her straight on, and her eyes are wide and electric blue and very awake.

Luisa’s chest pounds faster, blood rushing to her head. Rose’s fingers travel slowly up Luisa’s arm, leaving a trail of goosebumps beneath their touch, and find their destination point right over Luisa’s rapidly beating heart.

She feels lightheaded and a little like she wants to throw up. “What are you doing?”

Rose leans in and whispers, scent of booze still sharp on her breath, “Something I’m going to regret.”

Fire courses through her veins, sets her alight with yearning and the urge to wrap herself around everything she wants and can’t have.

_Can’t have._

“I really,” Rose comes closer, closer, centimeters away, animal in her eyes, “really, really want to kiss you right now.”

_Can’t have._

“No, you don’t.” Somehow she manages to get the words out despite not being able to breathe. “You don’t know what you want. You don’t know what you’re saying.” _She feels…_

“I’m not so drunk I can’t think straight.”

 _Hypnotized._ “I don’t care. You’re still drunk. You’re still you.”

_Can’t have._

“Me.” Rose kisses Luisa’s collarbone, burns the skin she touches. “You. You. I want you.”

This is the part where Luisa runs away. The part where she gives Rose a blanket and a glass of water and doesn’t talk to her anymore for the rest of the night. This is the part where she remembers that this can never, ever happen.

It is not the part where they kiss.

Or it wouldn’t be. Shouldn’t be. If not for the fact that Luisa has never known how to stick to the script.

Rose’s lips are soft and taste like vodka and cherries and they devour Luisa whole and she can pretend she’d forgotten what this felt like, but truth be told, she hadn’t. She remembers, in vivid detail, every inch of Rose’s skin, and that night comes rushing back in a tidal wave of a memory that drags her under…

_code red_

Rose leans back onto the couch and Luisa bends over her and kisses her deeper, harder, sweat-slicked skin against skin, flames eating her from the inside out.

_code red code red code red_

Her eyes fly open and everything is red, Rose’s hair and Rose’s lips and all of the warning signs flashing in her eyes, and she can’t hear the sirens over her own heartbeat, but she sees red and it’s just enough to break Luisa out of her burning trance.

Oh _fuck._

“I… stop, stop!” She yanks herself backward and presses the heels of her hands to her eyes until stars cloud her vision and replace the red. “I can’t do this. We can’t do this.”

Rose, face flushed, looks genuinely hurt, which _isn’t fucking fair_ , and Luisa, Luisa backs up all the way to the other side of the couch, and the only reason she doesn’t leap off altogether is because she’s pretty sure her legs would give out.

 _Why not?_ Rose’s eyes say.

_Because you’re married now. You’re my stepmother now. And you shouldn’t be this beautiful. Because it’s easier to hate you when you’re not around. Because the taste of vodka isn’t the only intoxicating thing about your lips. Because…_

“You’re drunk,” she chokes out. “You wouldn’t want this if you were sober.” _You wouldn’t want_ me _if you were sober_. “Seriously. We can’t. Even if you weren’t drunk. Which you are. I…” _am combusting on the inside_. “Listen. Listen. I’m not going to take advantage of you like that. And this can’t happen. Just…”

“You’re not taking-”

“It doesn’t _matter_.” She tugs at her own hair and breathes in, out. In, out. For fuck’s sake, she’s been both party and witness to more drinking-instigated horror stories than she could ever recount. She knows better than this and hates herself for even letting herself consider it. In, out. In, out. She grabs Rose by the wrist and shoves the finger with the stupid ring on it in her face. “This can’t happen because _you made your decision already, and you didn’t choose me!”_

Maybe it’s the ring, maybe it’s seeing Luisa dance on the edge of a panic attack, maybe it’s because the fire dies down, maybe it’s just that she’s shocked herself into sobering up – whatever it is, Rose goes from wild lust to _oh shit_ in less than a second.

Rose lifts her hand to her lips, as though she can’t believe where they were only moments ago. She’s trembling. Or maybe Luisa’s the one trembling and that’s why it looks like Rose is trembling. And maybe Luisa should go stick her head in the freezer before she really does combust.

“I shouldn’t have done that,” Rose breathes, “I shouldn’t have come here.”

 _Then why did you?_ she wants to scream.

Because no, she shouldn’t have. And Luisa shouldn’t have kissed her back, and Luisa should have said _no, Rose, you can’t come in,_ and Luisa should have never talked to Rose at the bar back in July, and they should have never gone to the pool that night, even if she hadn’t known what was going to happen afterwards, and they shouldn’t have played truth or dare like a couple of idiot teenagers because they can’t even be friends, they can’t even be anything.

“We’re not going down that road again.” She says it to herself as much as to Rose. Praying she’s recovered enough to hold herself up, Luisa finally stands and takes more than a few steps back. “You’re here. Let’s just… the guest room is that way.” She gestures vaguely to one direction or another. “I’ll be there in a minute. I just- need one. A minute. I need a minute.”

“Okay.”

Luisa makes her escape before Rose can move, all but sprinting to the bathroom. Once she’s shut the door firmly behind her and locked it for good measure, she slumps against it and counts to twenty. And then forty; her head is still spinning when she gets to twenty.

Her bearings back at least somewhat, she drifts to the sink and rinses out her mouth. Over and over, over and over, until she rids herself of the taste of vodka and cherry and roses and gasoline.

(Smoke still smolders in the back of her throat no matter how many times she swallows.)

Luisa considers, for a concerning length of time, barricading herself in here for the remainder of the night, except the doctor in her kicks in, and the thought of leaving Rose to her own devices is worse than the idea of going back out there. So she splashes water on her face, rinses her mouth out one more time, and steels herself.

Rose, having managed to find the guest room despite Luisa’s sloppy directions, is sitting on the bed when Luisa comes in with a t-shirt and sweatpants that are going to be too short for Rose’s legs, along with a glass of water. She tosses the clothes next to Rose, who’s either zoned out or transfixed by the paint on the wall, and sets the glass down on the nightstand.

Eyelids fluttering, Rose snaps out of her stupor and looks at Luisa. She’s pale, even paler in the white dress. Like a ghost with empty eyes. She shifts her gaze to the pile of clothing and crinkles her brow in question.

“If you want to sleep in that dress, I don’t really care, but I figured I’d give you the option.” Luisa runs a hand through her hair and feels very much like she needs to sleep for days. “The shirt’s cotton. It’s nice.” She bites down on her tongue. _You’re not sleeping naked in my house. Not even in a different bed. “_ I would drink that whole glass, by the way, if you want to ease tomorrow’s suffering.”

Rose pulls the shirt into her lap, holds it like it’s something delicate and precious, studies it like it’ll tell her everything there is to know about its owner. “Journey?”

“It was a gift from Rafael. We’re true kids of the eighties and nineties.” There had been many hours in their young adult years, back before their respective downward spirals into self-destruction and the resulting explosion, spent singing along in the car to Queen, Journey, Bon Jovi, Nirvana, the Goo Goo Dolls, so on and forever.

Their relationship is… on the mend now, in its own way – partly thanks to the family therapy sessions she’s been dragging him to ever since rehab – but he’s still got a lot to work through on his end, and the days of impromptu duets on the road feel long lost to her now. She wonders, every single day, if the space they occupy together will ever stop being a bomb site. She hopes so. She still remembers all the words to Bohemian Rhapsody.

“'Don’t Stop Believin” was always my song. Raf’s was 'Livin’ on a Prayer.’ I think it still is, actually.”

"Huh.”

“What?” Luisa prickles defensively. She doesn’t care if it’s a cliché. It’s _her_ cliché. “If you’re going to knock my music tastes, I’ll take my shirt back and make you sleep in the dress.”

“No, not that.” Rose reaches for the water and takes a large gulp before elaborating. “I just would’ve pegged you as a Spice Girl.”

Luisa had, in fact, been a Spice Girl (Raf had refused to let her play any of the CDs when he was in the car with her), but she withholds that information, deciding that maybe Rose doesn’t need to know every single detail about her when she hardly knows anything about Rose.

And that’s just it. At the insufferable family dinners her father forces her and Rafael to go to, Rose chatters on about so many superficial aspects of her life, but she never talks about the things that actually matter. Luisa doesn’t care about her adventures in having a law degree, or the argument she’d had with her hair stylist last week (nor does she ever want to sit through another of her dad’s rounds of How I Met Your Stepmother ever again).

She wants to know Rose’s favorite color, her favorite movie, favorite book, favorite ice cream flavor. She wants to know the story behind the faint white scar on the inside of her forearm, and has she ever had pets, and what is she allergic to, and she wants to know how to make her laugh until she can’t breathe, and is she ticklish, and if so, where, and has she ever dyed her hair, and has she always known she likes girls and does she only like girls, and if she only likes girls then what is this marriage even about, or is Luisa the only girl she’s ever liked, and how long does she take showers, and can she say the alphabet backwards, and what is so heavy on her mind that she had to go and drink her Friday night away over it, and what does she cry about when no one is around to see? What makes her real? What makes her Rose?

She wants to know and she doesn’t. She wants to be the one to uncover all of these secrets, and she knows she can’t. Not if she wants to keep Rose, and everything she is, firmly compartmentalized in the part of her brain marked “off limits.”

“Luisa?”

Luisa blinks. Now she’s the one zoning out.

Rose stretches her legs out on the bed like she’s trying to take up more space. Luisa hasn’t sat down beside her and she is absolutely not going to. “What are you thinking about?” Rose asks softly.

She’s thinking about how this is the first time Rose has felt real to her since the day they met, and how she doesn’t want it to end, and how that’s so, so dangerous.

(She can tie a cherry stem into a knot with her tongue.)

She’s thinking about how easy it is for them to talk about anything, everything, when it’s just them together, making bad decisions and sitting too close and breathing in sync. Even now, after what just happened, they’ve fallen back into their rhythm.

(And into an unspoken mutual agreement to avoid talking about what they just did to ruin the night.)

She’s thinking about how Rose is one of the few people who has ever listened to her, and who didn’t run away when she started talking about the parts of herself that aren’t pretty, and how, in another life, all of their nights could be like this, sharing their secrets and their scars and kissing each other like it means something, and no one would have to be drunk and there wouldn’t be anything to regret by the time the sun came up.

Now, in the life she’s stuck with, she still feels like she’s falling – and worse, she’s not sure she wants to stop.

 _That’s the most terrifying thought you’ve had all day, Luisa._  

“I’m just tired.” Luisa backs towards the door and away from the sparks before they can ignite again. “I’m going to go to bed. Oh, uh, that door right there leads to a bathroom. Which, if you’re planning on throwing up at any point, would be a much more ideal place to do so than my nice clean carpet that has done nothing to hurt you.”

Rose grimaces but nods, and Luisa wishes her one final goodnight and walks to her own bedroom while swallowing past the lump in her throat. She has the answer to Rose’s question now, she thinks.

(Sometimes you do things yesterday that you’d never do today.)

Come morning, Rose will either forget everything, or she’ll remember it all and blame every bit of it on the alcohol, and Luisa will know better than to believe her. And in a voice hard and closed off in a painfully familiar way, Rose will call it a mistake, and Luisa will say _I agree with you_ and she’ll think _and I hope you make it again and that next time you won’t have to have poison in your system to do it_.

And Rose will leave. And one day, she might come back. And Luisa will open her door again.

(That doesn’t mean you won’t do them again tomorrow.)

People might change, but that doesn’t mean they learn.

Luisa brushes her fingers over the scorch marks on her lips and thinks that maybe she doesn’t have as much self-control as she'd like to believe.


End file.
